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PDP Installment 1: A New Frontier |
In this inaugural episode of the P-Double Podcast, I discuss my poem "Points of Contact"--a ghazal from my forthcoming collection Honest Engine. Because I am introducing the series, this episode is a little longer than the target eight to ten minutes that will be the standard for the podcast.
For reference, the poem I am discussing is published below. In addition, Natasha Trethewey's poem "Miscegenation," which I mention in my commentary, can be found here at the Poetry Foundation website.
For reference, the poem I am discussing is published below. In addition, Natasha Trethewey's poem "Miscegenation," which I mention in my commentary, can be found here at the Poetry Foundation website.
POINTS OF CONTACT
Name one revolution whose inception was unlike a fist.
Factions disparate, then tucked together—coiled like a fist.
Foreign policies are symbol languages—idiomatic, cryptic.
In America, nothing says “We desire peace” like a fist.
The heart is a one-man rave in the body’s industrial district.
Blood-drunk and insomniac, it pumps towards sleep like a fist.
Mammogram magic revealed my lover’s dense breasts.
Behind each nipple I kissed, a soft knot threatened her like a fist.
Our universe’s yet shattered mysteries fear the astrophysicist.
“Damn his galaxies-thick glasses, his mind, relentless, like a fist.”
“Like a glove”—the young groom exalts his wife’s love, its fit.
Sounds romantic. (He means sex—her love’s grip like a fist.)
“An unfocused punch, Kyle, risks a broken hand or wrist.”
So laden the psyches of men. Father, must I also think like a fist?
Copyright © Kyle Dargan, 2014
Name one revolution whose inception was unlike a fist.
Factions disparate, then tucked together—coiled like a fist.
Foreign policies are symbol languages—idiomatic, cryptic.
In America, nothing says “We desire peace” like a fist.
The heart is a one-man rave in the body’s industrial district.
Blood-drunk and insomniac, it pumps towards sleep like a fist.
Mammogram magic revealed my lover’s dense breasts.
Behind each nipple I kissed, a soft knot threatened her like a fist.
Our universe’s yet shattered mysteries fear the astrophysicist.
“Damn his galaxies-thick glasses, his mind, relentless, like a fist.”
“Like a glove”—the young groom exalts his wife’s love, its fit.
Sounds romantic. (He means sex—her love’s grip like a fist.)
“An unfocused punch, Kyle, risks a broken hand or wrist.”
So laden the psyches of men. Father, must I also think like a fist?
Copyright © Kyle Dargan, 2014